


The Oude Delft

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Delft - Freeform, Dutch Art, Ghosts, Gothic, M/M, Paranormal, Pirates, Reincarnation, Spooky, The Netherlands, VOC, Vermeer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:26:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27351934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: Halloween Tale. Amidst the mists of autumnal Delft, fine art restorer Merlin Emyrs experiences a mysterious visitation that both connects him to the world of the Dutch Golden Age and breaks his heart.
Relationships: Elyan/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 38





	The Oude Delft

**Author's Note:**

> Thanking my very good friend and beta extraordinaire Crideon, whose careful and clever editing and brilliant suggestions made this story way better than it was. Have a wonderful spooky season!

The Oude Delft is steeped in heavy banks of mist. It lies massed above the canals and closes around buildings and people, the stately presence of the Prinsenhof and the forms of those late night stragglers who are at last making their way home. While the bright lights of a bike will sometimes pierce the thick coat of milky fog, most of the time few shapes make it through, coalesce into enough of a unit to be identified.

Even the white rails of the otherwise eye-catching Schinkelbrug fail to stand out in the darkness that envelops the old town. It's as if a painter has smudged out form and light from his picture, laying over canvas a thumb thick coat of white over an old-fashioned vista.

Merlin shakes his head. Just because he's here in the Netherlands to help restore a painting, it doesn't mean that he should compare every townscape to an old tableau. And while it's true that the Oude Delft still looks like a location out of some piece of seventeenth century artwork, it's also true that the town is no longer what it once had been. Because of fires, explosions and demolitions it no longer has the same appearance as before. He shouldn't entertain silly nostalgic notions.

Yet tonight, it looks as though he's stepped back into one of the paintings he's helping restore, a street view from the seventeenth century, full of mystery and light, moonshine and architectural extravaganzas. Maybe it's because he's tipsy after a restaurant rendezvous with his colleagues, or perhaps it's because with all the shops closed for the day there's no trace of modernity seeping through.

Because of the mist, the lights filtering through windows have the dimmer sheen of candlelight. And the same goes for street illumination. Sounds barely drift across, no engine rumbles from afar and no footfalls but his own echo along the canal path.

In front of him and to the right the bulk of the Oude Kerk rises just round the corner with its side entrance and its tilted leaning tower jutting upwards, fully visible from the Niewstraat bridge further down the road.

In daylight and with no mist hanging heavy on the air you can see the trees that adorn the street and frame the portal. It's very pretty and scenic, a breath of fresh air in the midst of town life. Since it's autumn, they're shedding their leaves, but due to the current weather conditions, Merlin can scarcely make out their trunks, let alone their lustrous foliage.

As for the beauty that is stored inside, the liberation window and the fine Niehoff pipe organ, he can't see them right now, but he can picture them. Because when he's not at work, then he's admiring its treasures, paying homage to some of the greats buried inside, and in particular to Vermeer, whose Woman Reading a Letter he's working to restore to its full glory.

But it's not only the reminders of his job that cause him to linger around this place. It's the sense of history that permeates it, the long succession of events that shaped its history, and, why not, the clean charm of its bright, spacious naves.

Over the past few months, he's grown accustomed to the Oude Kerk. Thanks to the institution he's employed by, he's found a small flat close to the church. At night, if his TV isn't on he can hear it chime the hour. It's as regular as clockwork, sometimes soothing, sometimes annoying. It's certainly a sound he's got used to over the past few months, the same way he's adapted to life in The Netherlands.

Except tonight the sound is different. It tells him it's midnight the same way it has on countless other nights, yet the regularly prolonged chiming plunges the world into a stillness that seems different to the usual quiet of night time.

To verify this impression, he looks around. There's a different quality to the air. It's somewhat lighter, fresher, perhaps even colder. There's a different note to the sounds that make it to him. They're duller, deadened, coming from further off.

The same goes for his surroundings. Because of the fog he can't be completely sure, but there's something about them that's changed. It's absurd, because the shapes of the building around him can't have morphed. They can be blunted by the heavy mists, but can't have been modified. And yet he has a feeling they're subtly different.

Even the road he's walking on seems to be more uneven than usual. He doesn't remember roadworks around this spot, so it can't be that, unless a building site has mushroomed in the hours between eight pm and now.

It's darker too, as if there's been some kind of black out and all roadside illumination has gone. Maybe it's just the weather playing tricks on him, or he's drunk one too many pints with his colleagues. He hopes that a good night of rest will sort him out, stop him being the victim of these strange impressions.

Tired, he rubs his eyes and proceeds, determined to make it home and onto his mattress. He won't sip even the smallest amount of alcohol till he's done with his project. If he ruins the canvas...

He's proceeded a few more paces when something catches his attention. It's like moonlight has suddenly washed upon his surroundings, silvering them with its shine, throwing a new bright patina on them.

And he can't believe what he's seeing. While the church's shape appears the same, some of the stained glass windows are now walled in, and part of the glass has been replaced with a plain sort. As for the other buildings, some of them seem to have undergone slight changes. A few stand lower, as if they'd lost a storey or two; a couple had acquired stepped gables, looking much more ancient into the bargain. The canal barge he'd breakfasted on right that morning has given way to smaller craft, wooden, carrying cargo, moored close by the bridge. It smells like fish.

Though Merlin blinks, the view doesn't change. It's as if he's looking at Jan van der Heyden's The Oude Delft painting, and while it's true that he often experiences emotions by way of art, it's also absurd that he should be dream walking his way through a baroque canvas.

Determined to go home and put an end to his brain's shenanigans, he wraps his scarf more carefully around him, and makes to proceed, but a sound borne on the wind stops him.

He pays closer attention and it's repeated.

It's a man's voice, coming as from far off. Its tones are Dutch, that much Merlin can say. Though he's working in the Netherlands, his colleagues are so well versed in English he doesn't even have to try and communicate in Dutch. Through trial and error, he's learnt enough to get by in case he needs to. That's how, concentrating, he sorts out what is being said to him.

“Mijnheer,” the Dutchman, who is still enveloped by the mist, says, “could you please point me to the Vlamingstraat 40?”

Merlin takes a moment to think. He's been living in this Holland town for a while now and will probably stay on until the Vermeer he's working on is fully restored. This means he's been able to orientate himself for a while now. But that's not the reason why he's familiar with that address. His job has made him familiar with it. Merlin has a PhD in Dutch and Flemish Renaissance painting from the Courtauld and as a consequence knows Grijzenhout 's theory as to that address. According to the scholar, houses once stood at Vlamingstraat 40-44 that were rendered by Vermeer in his famous The Little Street painting. Different buildings are now there of course and Grijzenhout himself no longer thinks the constructions portrayed in the canvas can be identified or located.

Merlin has no idea what stands now in the place of the Dutch Golden Age structures. Or he might have read up about it, but he would need to look up the publication where that theory first appeared. His failing to remember, however, doesn't have to inconvenience the person who's just asked him for help. “I can Google Map the address,” he says in as helpful a tone he can muster in his far from perfect Dutch.

The stranger who addressed him steps forwards and a shaft of moonlight bathes his form, revealing a handsome young man dressed in a rather strange sartorial choice. He's wearing, in fact, a white v-neck shirt that has no front buttons and a pair of camel trousers that ends just a little past the knee. His white socks aren't as clean as Merlin's mum might have liked, but at least they might make him warm. The Dutch climate can be damp during the autumn; this Merlin knows for a fact. He has lost many a good brolly to it.

Merlin certainly isn't thinking about the stranger's fashion sense as he contemplates him. His flyaway thoughts linger rather on the fact that the man is fit and good-looking. The breadth of his shoulders and torso hint at a generously muscled physique – no matter how much Merlin tries to stick to his Monday arms exercise routine he will never get biceps like those – and his skin has a natural golden glow that doesn't look like the by-product of a tanning salon but rather the result of exposure to the elements. And there's a certain kindness about the man's features that is really appealing.

But he shouldn't be considering that. It's midnight, the man seems lost, and needs a helping hand rather than some sort of pick-up line. So Merlin repeats his words once again.

The stranger, now perfectly lit up by the moon, frowns, as if he's failed to understand what Merlin has just said.

Merlin wonders if he's slurred or if his Dutch is really that bad and his colleagues have been so nice as not to mention it. He tries once again, this time in English, so as to chase away the stranger's doubts and any miscomprehension that might have arisen out of his insufficient language skills.

“I come from a distance,” the stranger says, once again in his native language. “And I've been missing from these lands awhile. So there is much I might not know about the latest news.”

The stranger's words sound a mite strange to Merlin, but then again he's no Dutch expert and he might be the one failing to communicate well. Besides, it's midnight. Maybe this man just wants his help finding the place he needs. “I'll show you the way,” Merlin says, simplifying his message so that it will get across.

The stranger smiles and there's thankfulness in the way he looks, but also something else. It's as if he's not merely relieved to have found someone willing to be of assistance, but as if he's just emerged from some kind of ordeal and is glad that it is over with.

Merlin determines he must help this man. It looks as if he needs it. So Merlin quickly googles the required address, making small talk as he does. “It's funny that you mention that address. Are you a Dutch art fan?”

“I'm a seafaring man,” the stranger answers, “and I understand little of art. But I uphold any trade that benefits the Republic.”

Merlin briefly looks up from his search. He's pretty sure The Netherlands are a monarchy; he's seen the sights on his days off and those included the Royal Palace in Amsterdam and the Noordeinde Paleis in The Hague. He's come away full of the knowledge that, much like Britons, the Dutch have a monarch. But that's not to say a Dutchman couldn’t be a republican, like this stranger. Merlin isn't a traditionalist either. “I'm getting no results for that street number,” Merlin says, “but we can start walking in the direction of the Vlamingstraat and take it from there.”

The stranger looks a little concerned as he sifts Merlin's words.

So as to placate any doubt the other man might have concerning him, Merlin adds, “I'm Merlin.” He tries a smile on for size. “Emrys.”

The stranger unfurls a grin. “Arthur Pendraaght.”

Arthur moves towards him, and in the moonshine and fog, he looks for a moment pale and evanescent, a quality that contrasts with his blond good looks. But he appears buoyed by Merlin's offer of help, and far less confused than he was when he asked Merlin for directions. That wave of renewed confidence makes his pallor appear like a secondary quality.

Though Arthur doesn't get quite close to Merlin, he falls into step with him.

Even though Merlin ought to look at his screen to confirm he's going in the right direction, he prefers to look at Arthur. There's something about him that just draws the eye and it's not simply the harmony of his features. He gives off an interesting vibe; an aura that attracts Merlin like a moth to the open flame. “So why are you so keen on finding this address at this time of night?”

As if it only now it occurs to him that it's night, Arthur looks up at the moon. “I need to find it.”

Merlin frowns. “If the place is a hotel we'll find it in a trice.”

As if once again Merlin's Dutch is failing him, Arthur grows thoughtful. “No, you don't...” He stops his words and even his pace slows. “As I said, I've been away from home for a while.” The tension in his brow doesn't lighten up. “I don't remember how long myself. It's quite strange, I grant you that, but I can't quite find any spot I used to know. In these bustling times, things change, locations are swiftly altered. But it occurs to me that these developments have radically modified this township.”

Merlin has almost stopped paying attention to the blue dot on his screen. He knows they're moving in the right direction, and he's too interested by what Arthur has to say. “I'm sorry you feel like that. I'm sure you'll get used to Delft once more.”

“I have to get my sea legs back.” Arthur speaks the words into the night, as though he's uttering some kind of mantra.

As a metaphor, Merlin believes that one to be quite apt when it comes to adapting to new circumstances. “Look, I'm an Englishman and will work here for the next few months. At first, I thought I wouldn't get used to the place. You know, all that is lost in translation, the quips that don't work, the small things you do differently, and so on and so forth. And then, I adapted. And now I'm taking to it like a fish to water.”

Arthur flashes him a smile. “I'm glad. Were you offered a job by the Protestant authorities?”

Has Merlin somehow given Arthur to understand he is a religious sort of person? Because he isn't. In spite of the abundance of religious art he's analysed and studied, he just isn't drawn to judging deities and hosts of angels. That was why he is drawn to the Dutch Golden Age. In it there's more of a display of domesticity than divinity. Vermeer himself, who Merlin's currently working on, moved away from Biblical subjects quite early in his career in favour of everyday scenes. So Merlin replies, “No, not really. Er, no.”

Arthur shrugs his shoulders. “I thought that was the main reason Dutchmen and Englishmen were acquainted with each other.”

Once again Merlin gets the feeling they're talking at cross purposes, that he and Arthur are trying to bridge a gap that isn't easily filled. Arthur has, admittedly come from far away. Maybe he's lost track of politics, or the pulse of things at the moment. It doesn't really matter and Merlin doesn't mean to point it out. Arthur is coming across as a good man, just one in need of help, and that is what Merlin means to supply. So he changes the subject, and shows Arthur his mobile. “We're nearly there.”

Arthur doesn't even spare a look for the phone. He merely looks around like a lost soul and says, “Are we? I can't tell.”

“Is somebody waiting for you there? Maybe you want to give them a ring.” Arthur sounds like he could use the support of a friend right about now and Merlin wants to provide the means to get it.

Confusion paints itself along the expressive swathe of Arthur's features. “I'm not sure... I don't.”

Merlin hopes he hasn't somehow touched upon a subject Arthur had rather not contemplate. “It's okay. You don't have to tell me.”

Out of his depth, Merlin makes a big production of tracking the blue positioning dot in Google Maps.

Arthur must have found the silence awkward, or maybe he just wants to be sociable, because he starts talking all of a sudden again. He must have fallen a little bit behind, because his voice sounds distant, and even his footfall, which Merlin had been aware of up till a couple of minutes ago, has become much more muted.

“My mother used to rent a flat in the Vlamingstraat,” Arthur says, his tone reflective. “From an enterprising lady who owns the building right next to hers.”

“And you think your mum is still there?” Merlin asks, trying to sound as casual in his question and not too curious. “Or has she moved?”

“She might have.” Arthur must have moved closer because Merlin can hear the air shift around the both of them. “I went away after all.”

“And she'd just move house and not send you even some kind of text telling you where to find her?”

Arthur draws his shoulders in. He must have interpreted Merlin's question as an insult to his mum. “I was away,” he says again, as if that's the key fact here. “She might have decided it was wise to go; she's such a prudent thoughtful woman. She'd never do anything unwise or uncaring. I was away and she couldn't possibly reach me.”

Arthur's speech knocks Merlin's heart right off its moorings. Its tone conveys all of Arthur's love for his parent; and as the son of a single mother himself, Merlin understands that all too clearly. He doesn't know why Arthur hasn't managed to keep in touch with his family. Maybe he'd travelled to a spot where internet connections are poor and expensive. Or perhaps he hasn't the best of relationships with his relations. Merlin would not probe.

“Well, her neighbours might give you a contact number or something.”

“Yes,” Arthur says. “My mother is on good terms with the neighbourhood, despite being Catholic. Her landlord is Protestant, as the whole County of Holland officially is, but despite that they quite like each other.”

Merlin's still not entirely clear what Arthur's saying. It's as if Arthur has more of a story to tell, but Merlin's in no position to understand it. It doesn't matter, they're almost there. They can already see the canal, though much like the one running the length of the Oude Delft, it is bathed in the milky tendrils of a heavy mist.

The specific address in non-existent according to Google, but Merlin's fairly sure Arthur will remember the place when he sees it. He hears Arthur say, “It's so different. I'm not sure I recognise the place.”

Merlin turns around so as to be able to comfort Arthur, but there's no one there.

Merlin turns in a slow circle, looking around himself, but only darkness and fog stare back at him.

“Arthur!” he calls out, but his voice is sucked in by the night and no voice returns his call.

*****

Aboard the Wapen van Amsterdam, Indian Ocean, 1665

There were no clouds on the horizon, the expanse around them a terse blue that sometimes shone emerald, and the sun had commenced his descent, its tint a fiery orange that gilded the contours of Arthur's field of vision and changed it into a dreamscape of gold and amber. It seemed apt, somehow, for weren't they all here chasing riches they could change into heavy round guilders or weighty reals? Arthur sighed, and tried to put off all thoughts of material gains, and attempted to enjoy the wind in his hair and the little amount of moist coolness he could extract from the dredges of a day as hot as the current one, for tomorrow would be another unremittingly blistering day, fit to turn even weather-tempered sailors into sweating, cursing complainers.

Taking a last glimpse of the foaming white sea and the limpid skyline, Arthur descended from the crow's nest and landed on the bridge with sure feet. He hadn't been a sailor this long without acquiring a set of showy tricks.

He ran into Elyan, who was sitting by the hatch cross-legged, darning a sail with double lengths of precious cotton. He was doing a fine job of it too, for Arthur remembered the state that topsail had been in before Elyan set to repairing it. “It was a miracle we made it to Batavia at all.”

Elyan whistled a bit of a tune, his hands busy with needle and thread with a purity of motion that indicated his proficiency. “But right into port we sailed, and now our holds are filled with such precious cargo we can retire and never sail another day.”

Earlier on, Arthur had had the opportunity to have a look at some of their cargo. It was worth a fortune. It could set up a hundred men for life. Containing as it did precious blue and black porcelain, silk, tea, and spices, it was among the most precious freight one could imagine. Arthur didn't need to be a connoisseur to know that. “Do you really think our cut will amount to as much as that?”

Elyan gazed up from his work. It was already mostly finished anyway. “We were promised.”

Arthur scanned the horizon. It was much as it had been before, barely encumbered by any cloud formation, streaked pink and gold. Only Arthur's perspective had changed. He now stood on the stable deck rather than up in the crow's nest. “This is a VOC ship. The company will get most of the returns from our haul.”

“I don't deny that.” Elyan stabbed the needle through the cloth. “And Captain Helios will do well for himself. But these ships return four times the investments made to fund it. Even with our modest cut we'll have enough to change our lives.”

At Elyan's words, Arthur grew pensive and thought back to Delft and to his life there. Truth be told, he could scarcely picture the town anymore. The last time he had set foot there had been eight months ago for a three-day stay after he'd been dismissed from service aboard the Zeewijk. Prior to that, he'd spent a further year and a half at sea, following a route that had brought him round the Cape, where the ship's stocks were replenished, water was refreshed and the sick offloaded, and then continued past Madagascar and then eastwards, using the Westerlies and then the South East Trades to reach the Spice Islands. The years before that had been similar in that Arthur had scarcely stayed put, serving on a number of vessels, mostly belonging to the VOC, and wintering in Malacca, Dejima, or the port of Galle. He had nearly forgotten his homeland, the taste of its food, or the bite of its weather, but he had stuck with it because it was the only route of advancement open to him. “Well, then,” Arthur said, not as optimistic as Elyan in that regard, “what are you going to do with the money if we get it?”

“I mean to open an inn,” Elyan said, his voice taking on the tones of a daydream even as his fingers busied themselves with needle and thread. He was almost as fast with them as he was with a cutlass. “Dordrecht sounds good to me. And if I've something left, I'd invest it in a nice trading vessel, like this one.” He nodded at the planks that bore his weight. “But I'd never set sail again.”

Arthur nodded. As much as he loved the sea – there had been something about it that had always drawn him, even as, little more than a child, he heard seafarers' tales issue forth from the depths of a tavern – he was tired of this life, of the constant strife, its dependence on chance, and the constantly looming threat of death. “I'll give my mother half of it.” Life owed her so much; Arthur wanted to redress the balance. “So she can be sure of making rent.”

“Your father is a right bastard.” Elyan gave him a pointed look as he snapped the thread with his teeth. “That's for sure.”

“She couldn't have known.” As an adult, Arthur had seen the papers, and there had been no doubt. “Only the celebrant could have known Uther had married Nimueh five months before contracting his sham marriage with my mother.”

“As I said.” Elyan wasn't like the other sailors. He didn't find the story salacious or funny. He never laughed about Arthur's father's deviousness in managing to bed his mother, or put Arthur's mother down for what had happened to her. And not just because Arthur had promised to have the hide of anyone who insulted his mother. It was because Elyan had morals and had suffered, much like Arthur. “He's low scum of the earth.”

Arthur shrugged his shoulders. He had so many feelings about this, about his father's use of lies and deceit to bed his mother. He considered it iniquitous, base, but he hadn't been able to do anything about it yet, because Uther Pendraaght was a distinguished burgher, one with a reputation that hadn't been tarnished by his vile choices. But when he returned from this voyage, Arthur would have money, and not only would he make sure that his mother could pay Frouw van der Minne her rent, but he would also set her up so she didn't have to work as hard as she always had. She'd be Uther's equal for once. That prospect alone was worth all the years spent at sea.

“You should set up house.” Elyan seemed to have guessed what Arthur's train of thought was. “Marry, have children, forget about the past.”

Arthur wished it was so easy, but it wasn't. And he couldn't be as open about this as he had been about everything else. So he didn't speak.

“My sister is a good woman and likes you,” Elyan said, standing up with a push, folding the sail he'd be working on, which was now more of a patchwork than it had been, but which would serve them a while longer still. “That's not a bad future to look forward to once you've got everything settled.”

Arthur nodded, though there was more he wanted to say. Perhaps when they were home in the United Provinces, he would be more above board. He could then tell Elyan. It wouldn't be easy, for there were no hopes of being returned, but he would toy with the truth no longer. He was about to pronounce some non-committal words that would serve for now, when the lookout shouted, “ships to larboard!”

Not far from them, the First Mate unfolded his binoculars and scanned the horizon. After a few moments' close observation, he called to one of the mariners. “Go and fetch the Captain.”

The sailor disappeared from view, leaving a sense of tense apprehension on deck.

Arthur wasn't without it. They were a three-day sail away from the nearest Dutch outpost and had no escort convoy. If the ships they had sighted weren't Dutch, they had every reason to fear.

Before Arthur and Elyan had exchanged one fraught look, Captain de Vries, appeared on deck devoid of his jacket, his hair wildly undone. Going by the still somewhat faraway look in his eyes, he had just been interrupted mid-slumber. However, he had enough presence of mind to snatch the binoculars away from the first mate and scan the distance.

His study of the vessels was careful and prolonged. He grunted once or twice as if that was part of his assessment of the situation. “Though they're displaying no flags, those are Portuguese carracks all right.”

Expectant silence gave way to a murmur rising like breakers. Sun bronzed faces greyed and became drawn, but still no one moved.

In a tense tone Captain de Vries ordered, “set jibs and topsails.”

The first mate relayed the order and Arthur watched as the most agile members of the crew loosened the sails, adding canvas to seek the winds stirring the ocean. Their Captain thundered another order and Arthur felt the Wapen veer so as to be able to sail abeam.

“Raise spinnakers!” The First Mate relayed with a bark, sending sailors running this way and that.

Arthur and Elyan exchanged quick glances.

Elyan asked him, “Are we going to make it?”

Arthur considered. Carracks were larger than sailing rigs such as the Wapen van Amsterdam and therefore slower, but they disposed of more sails and chances were she was not carrying cargo, making the behemoth faster than could be expected. But he didn't want to say that. It seemed like bad luck and not conducive to effort. He bit his lip and shook his head.

Before Elyan had time to interpret Arthur's body language, the First Mate urged them to get moving by way of curses and swear words.

Together with other mariners they scurried to the armament lockers. The Wapen was a merchantman, but that didn't mean her owners were so naive as to send a cargo ship to far flung locales without making sure she carried armament enough to defend her from the sort of widespread attack she was liable to attract.

Below decks, Arthur grabbed a pistol and a cutlass. Similarly, Elyan and others armed themselves, their faces bearing the mark of the same anxiety that was simmering within Arthur. Back on deck they unlocked the 24-pounder aft cannons from their deck pinions, filling swabbing buckets with seawater, and preparing their ammunition, which came in the shape of chain shot, grape shot and iron balls.

The sight of these projectiles didn't fill Arthur with any good feeling, even though it should have lent him courage. He was ready to die, yet he wasn't ready to kill. He had no inclination to, experienced distaste at the thought of it, though he realised that if push came to shove, he would defend both himself and his ship. He intended to make sure his fellow crew got out of this alive, especially Elyan; he also needed to make it home to help his mother, and have a stab at the more peaceful life he sometimes dreamed of.

But this would only be possible if they managed to outrace the carracks. At the moment there were swathes of ocean between them, but that didn't mean much. The Portuguese had solid ships and now the wind was in their favour. They were racing across the gold-tinted ocean with the Easterlies filling their sails and lending them a speed the Dutch rig just couldn't parallel. The crew would have to entrust their fate to the Wapen's manoeuvrability and hope in the descent of darkness, which would lend cover to their vessel.

Therefore, Arthur prayed with his eyes semi-closed, his breath stopped in his chest, but when he looked again the carracks were considerably closer, lagging perhaps an hour behind. And if they carried as many cannons as their size suggested, then they would be blown clean out of the water.

“Take her two points to larboard!” Captain de Vries, who hadn't left the deck for a single moment, shouted at the helmsman, who complied with a sombre look sculpted on his face.

Accordingly, the Wapen veered to larboard, seeking to move downwind. Thanks to this ruse, her sails filled fully, and the rig seemed to gain more speed, gliding easily across the ocean. At this point, the ship was carrying as much canvas as she possibly could bear and nothing more could be done to make her plough the waves faster. For a while the crew exulted, for it seemed as though they were out of danger, the Portuguese held at bay. Even Arthur let himself hope they would be spared, thus managing to complete their voyage unharmed.

But it was not to be. The carracks were gaining ground, the shape of them becoming more and more distinct as they neared the Wapen. The Captain gave a series of orders that were carefully repeated and executed, but the Portuguese drew closer and closer. There seemed to be no trick left to adopt to stave off their advance.

As he was working the ropes close by, Arthur saw the First Mate accost the Captain.

“Should we dump the cargo?” The First Mate looked at his feet, encased in shoes whose buckles were shining so spotless they were. “If we did, we'd be faster.”

The Captain's eyebrows twitched. His voice went down, but the wind carried it over. “Are you mad, Vandernoot? This cargo is worth 1,350,000 guilders. The VOC's bigwigs will have our heads if we lose it.”

“It looks to me as though we'll lose our heads either way.” The Mate lowered his head, too easily cowed.

The Captain's voice rose, and then, fell to a loud whisper again. “Better to take our luck now, than go back without our cargo. The Portuguese are dullards; they're not so canny as to overtake us.”

“Sir, I--” The First Mate again attempted speech, but his attempt was quashed by Captain de Vries' angry glare. “As far as I know I make the decisions here, Vandernoot. You'll obey your orders or be placed under arrest. Which is it?”

The First Mate drew himself up and saluted.

Before long the chase was done and the Portuguese were so close Arthur could make out the faces of the sailors on the carracks' decks. They showed, to a soul, greed in their eyes. Meanwhile, the wind pushed the enemy vessel closer, thus exposing the Wapen's side to the lead carrack's opening salvo of fire. The initial volley of musket shots ripped into a chance number of sailors, who fell at their posts, leaving their crew mates to handle heavy pieces of cannon almost single-handed. It was a sudden hell-scape aboard the Wapen. The wails of the dying mixed with calls for help.

Arthur hailed one of these laments, and started running towards the position of one of the felled gunners.

At the same time, thunder and smoke rolled over the deck as a second shower of shot came down like rain in a monsoon. As he crossed the deck at a run, balls whizzed above Arthur's head, thick like hailstones, and he had to duck, and just race ahead, so as not to be hit.

Somehow luck was with him and he was able to help the remaining gunner load and release the heavy culverin. The thing made an enormous noise, weighed a tonne, and was hard to handle, but it did drive a hole in the enemy's broadside. At sight of it the fellow Dutch gunner flashed a smile at Arthur. “Let's do that again.”

Though Arthur was no artillery man, he busied himself loading the pungent gunpowder and lighting the dry fuse, relying on the skills he'd had to learn while sailing the seas of Asia, Africa and Europe. As his cannon thundered however, the enemies' did the same, matching their pace, if not surpassing it.

It was carnage on deck; cries filled the air and blood disgorged itself on the shining planks. A host of balls hit the mainmast, which shattered midway with an ominous crack, and the mainsail came cracking easily down, like a flag of surrender. Wherever Arthur turned, there were dead or wounded. Even the helmsman was gone. And the air was acrid with smoke and heavy with the tang of fresh blood. Some members of the crew had decided to leap overboard to flee from the shower of shrapnel and iron raining in from the carracks. But there was nowhere to go and they were swept off by the deceptive currents.

Captain de Vries was still alive, though wounded, as the makeshift bandage he had wrapped around his face proved. Among the chaos unfolding around him, he bid the crew stand by their positions, but most failed to heed him, running around in a panic that knew no adherence to rank.

As for Arthur, he continued at his post until the gunner he was helping was hit and died, his stare fixing itself on no earthly view. Then, knowing he couldn't handle a cannon such as this one by himself, Arthur gave up on it and ran aft, where grappling hooks were being cast upon the Wapen.

Of Captain de Vries there was no trace anymore; perhaps he had perished in the fusillade, or maybe he had sought cover, and was now cowering somewhere, hidden from his enemies.

Alone of the officers on deck, the First Mate incited the crew to reaction, crying, “Now, men. Defend your ship!”

Concurrently, a mob of Portuguese swarmed up the forechains and over the rail, carrying cutlasses and long swords, lashing them right and left, stabbing anyone within reach whether armed or not, uttering menacing oaths in a handful of languages into the bargain.

Before long, Arthur was attacked by a Portuguese pirate as tall and wide as a door, a pearl earring hanging from his lobe, who'd just hopped onto deck releasing savage cries.

Agilely, Arthur met his first swing with the broad part of his cutlass. The metal rang and he felt the blow up in his shoulders, where his bones jarred with the impact. But even so he managed to disengage and parry the subsequent hasty blow. This angered his Portuguese adversary, who must have thought Arthur would be easy to get rid of. Wasn't he, after all, only a sailor on a merchantman and no marine? So he attacked again and again, forcing Arthur backwards, but not causing him to give up the fight.

With all the ingenuity he could muster, Arthur moved just at the right moment and deflected the latest lunge. With a feint, he managed to scratch the Portuguese man's side. But the man didn't stop. He seemed to be guided by some sort of berserker rage and to have a boundless reserve of energy. Well, Arthur would give as good as he got. He meant to survive, help Elyan, wherever he was in this chaos, and make it back home. This thick oaf wouldn't stop him.

He gave it his all, parried and went on the advance, retreated and lunged forwards, making the most of his trusted blade. All around him it was the same, men fighting, falling, killing. Many died while uttering prayers in more languages than Arthur understood. It was carnage, but Arthur's hope gave him energy. He had so much to live and fight for, a good future to make real. So even though he was tiring, he didn't let that slow him.

At last he was rewarded. He thrust his cutlass forward and it pierced through skin, taking his Portuguese assailant in the stomach. With a dull thump, the latter fell to his knees, grabbing at the steel that had cut through him. Arthur knew a moment of pity. The one facing him was a man just like him, obeying orders, serving indifferent powers than Arthur, authorities that sent him hurtling across oceans for the greater glory of crowned heads or private merchant princes. And when he saw the fear in his opponent's eyes, Arthur felt a moment of connection, of kinship, but then he became aware of the mayhem around him and his precarious position and he wrenched his cutlass free.

Just as he had done it, a pistol banged somewhere and Arthur felt the violent passage of the bullet through his stomach tissues, a dull movement that ripped through his flesh with strange painlessness. At first there was nothing but surprise, a stillness that came upon him as a result of his trying to understand what had happened. He looked around and saw one of the Portuguese boarders smile a cruel smile at him, before moving on to plough down more of Arthur's crew mates.

As for Arthur, a sense of weakness started to overtake him, even as the fight escalated around him. He wanted to take part, defend his ship and save her crew, but he could only take a few staggering steps before keeling over, his knees feeling like rubber, his joints like rusty old cogs. Then the pain came, draining and acute, like nothing he had ever experienced before. It took his breath. It took his thoughts. It agonised him.

Though the battle raged around him, he couldn't hear it. He could only stare at the sky overhead, and watch the sun go down, leaving only space for eternal night. He missed Elyan, wanted to unburden himself to him, tell him the truth of his heart. He wished he was home, that he could see his mother again, that she could hold him one more time like he longed to be held. Then the pain robbed him of any other notion but blind panic, and he scarcely even saw the flames around him.

And then even the stars illuminating the firmament paled.

**** 

Delft, 30 October 202-

Merlin says goodbye to his colleagues, leaves the Institute and stops at a pizza place for take away. He's walking home, carrying the carton containing redolent marinara, when he looks up at the sky. The weather hasn't much improved since the day before, but at least the fog that hovered over the area seems to have dispelled. Because he can, he inhales the fresh autumn air, and even though he has hot food with him that will go cold, he slows so as to appreciate the beauty of the evening.

It's nearly eight when he gets in the vicinity of the Oude Kerk. As always, it stands wide and majestic on the right-hand side of the road with its off-kilter tower and imposing mole. Around it, the evening bustle is diminishing, but by no means absent. A boy and a girl, sitting on their bicycles, are flirting in the lee of the north wall. From his spot at the mouth of the Schoolstraat, a tourist is taking photos of church and street, hunching down so as to get the best possible shot from the best possible angle. Leaving a little cloud of exhaust in his wake, a delivery boy on his scooter rushes past.

Always in a mood to contemplate architectural highlights, Merlin stops and takes a moment to appreciate the site, thinking of the strange encounter of the evening before. No sooner has the memory struck him, than the atmosphere around him begins to change. The air gets colder, and a mist descends that smooths out over the surroundings, smudging them out of all recognition.

The church bells toll and Merlin tries to snatch a glimpse at his watch, even though his hands are encumbered with the pizza box. It's eight o'clock sharp and, as always, the chimes from the bell are perfectly punctual. You could set the world clock by them.

Before he can wonder why the weather had suddenly taken a turn for the worse, he sees a figure step out of the hunkering mists. It's Arthur, dressed in the same clothes as the day before, confusion painted on his face just as it had been yesterday. At first there's no recognition of Merlin on his face, no memory of what had gone down but 20 hours before, no trace of any feeling other than bewilderment.

“Arthur,” Merlin calls out to him, holding up one hand as he hails his new, strange acquaintance. There's something about him that makes Merlin inordinately sad. It's not just his lost air, but some quality of his, as if he emanates a sorrowful aura. He needs help sure enough. “It's me, Merlin, from yesterday.”

“Merlin,” Arthur echoes with a wondering cast to his face. “Merlin, yes. I remember a Merlin.”

“Right, that's me.” Merlin approaches Arthur, though he does it slowly, so as not to scare him. He seems loopy and not a little out of it. Maybe he's under the effect of some drug; or he needs a doctor to take care of him. Either way, Merlin can't leave him in stitch. He needs to get to the bottom of Arthur's strange appearances. “You disappeared on me yesterday.”

The mention of the bygone day appears to jostle Arthur's memory. His eyes acquire the sheen of recollection. “Yes, yes, I was...” His gaze searches around, as if looking for familiar items that can help him get his bearings. “I was looking for the Vlamingstraat. I can't find my way there.”

“Because your mum lives there, right?” Merlin tries to jog Arthur's memory; at the moment it seems like his recollecting what he's about would help. That and finding him some kind of doctor. “That's what you said.”

“Yes, she rents a flat there,” Arthur says, a spark in his eyes that makes him look healthier and handsomer. That renewed ray of joyfulness seems to sit rightfully there. This is who Arthur is, or should be at all times. A man content with his lot. “From a good if strict matron.”

Merlin is nodding. Some of it he heard before, but he's getting more information, and this could be of assistance. Getting poor Arthur to a relative would solve a few of his current problems. His mother would perhaps know what to do. And if they can't find her, then maybe her landlord will know how to get a hold of her. One step at a time. “If you promise not to vanish again, I'll take you to the Vlamnigstraat.”

Even in the cold whirl of the mists, Arthur advances towards him. There's a calm smile on his face now, brought on in all likelihood by the prospect of seeing his mum again. As he moves, his legs caught in the milky loops of fog, he starts talking. “I've made some money,” he says. “On the Wapen. Its cargo is so rich.”

Though Merlin has little inkling what Arthur is talking about, he encourages him with a friendly smile. “That's good news.”

“I've seen some of it,” Arthur says, his movements slowed. “There are spices from the Indies and china from Guangzhou. Beautiful textiles too. It'll go for a million guilders on the Dutch market. We're made, all the crew is made.”

A strange suspicion starts to filter into Merlin's consciousness. “Guilders you said?”

Arthur's eyebrows knit together, but he finds Merlin's question at least somewhat logical, “That's what the Captain said.”

“The Captain of what?” Merlin asks the question even though he's starting to have more of an inkling.

“The Wapen van Amsterdam,” Arthur answers. “It's a good, solid ship.” His gaze becomes more faraway, losing itself in mists that aren't physical. “It... It set sail. I remember watching the shore recede, the busy port become a mere dot on the horizon.”

Normally, Merlin wouldn't think this is possible at all. He would tell himself he's too tired from work – which does absorb a lot of his attention – or simply that something he ate or drank has disagreed with him, but the more he focuses on Arthur the more sure he is. There's just something about him, about this, that tells him to go out on a limb and ask, “Your mother's landlord, what's her name?”

But Arthur doesn't heed Merlin's question. His gaze wanders around and there is less and less recognition in it. It's as if his surroundings are entirely foreign to him, changed past all recognition. “My mother's landlord? I--”

“Yes, Arthur.” Merlin firmly believes he's onto something. “Can you remember it?”

“I cannot recall.” Arthur moves forwards, but as he does, the contours of him fade in the mists that surround the small plaza. “I cannot.”

Even as Merlin's eyes strain trying to make Arthur out, Merlin volleys out one more question. “Is her name Ariaentgen van der Minne?”

“Yes,” Arthur answers, though his voice is fading the same way his presence is.

When Merlin focuses again on the spot Arthur had been, he sees nothing and no one. The street looks like it had a moment before, but there is no Arthur, nor any passer-by. The pizza box still in his hands is cold.

Merlin stares emptily in front of him and then little by little the mist lifts and noise surges on. The street looks like it's once again inhabited by living, breathing people, but Merlin feels no relief. The thought of Arthur chases him home and won't let him sleep.

****

31 October, 202-

Merlin sits in his cubicle, facing his computer screen, a lamp brightening the screen so he can better analyse what he's looking at. On the screen, side by side, sit two different images, one derived from an X-ray and the other from infrared reflectography, of the same Vermeer painting, the Woman Reading a Letter.

What he's observing is all very interesting. Merlin can clearly see traces of the ultramarine blue used to render the colour of the woman's jacket. Nowadays the jacket appears to be a faint greyish-green. It's clear that wasn't the original colour it bore. This has a practical application, will influence how the restoration is carried out, and Merlin will write a report as to the results of his analysis.

But his mind is not on it. He ought to be excited; he should be jumping off his chair. This is a crowning achievement when it comes to his job; it's the fulfilment of years of careful study and laborious toil. But he's still thinking about what happened the day before, still focusing on his strange encounter with Arthur. He has been telling himself that he's dreamed it and that it can't possibly be true. But though it doesn't look probable, it doesn't mean it wasn't real.

Merlin's never made use of any drugs that can alter his perception of reality and he's not in the grip of a fever. He has no reason to be seeing things. So, if he feels certain that he actually experienced what he did, there's no reason to doubt himself. He's never been such a hardcore believer in science that he should refuse to admit the possibility of happenings that defy explanation.

So when Mithian passes by on her way to her own office, he feels no shame in stopping her and asking, “Say, Mithian, you're a historian, so if I wanted to check some details of the life of one of Vermeer's relatives, where should I look?”

“The Gemeente Archief Delft, the town's archive would be a good place to start looking.”

Merlin makes a sign with his head signalling his understanding. “I have my researcher card and credentials from the Institute.”

“I'll give you a lift after hours, if you want.” Mithian sits on his desk, facing opposite him. “What are you looking for?”

As he prepares him answer, Merlin hums. “Ariaentgen van der Minne.”

“Ah, Vermeer's enterprising aunt.”

It's close enough to the truth, so Merlin lets it stand. “The one and only.”

Mithian stands, places a hand on Merlin's shoulder, and says, “I'll pick you up at three.”

Mithian is true to her word and under torrential rain they drive towards Den Hoorn, where the archive's new facilities have opened. Once there, he scans the inventories and then spends hours browsing digitalised documents and old kadaster maps. What he learns doesn't surprise him, but rather confirms his instincts. When the kind employee asks whether he's got everything he wanted with a reminder that they're about to close, Merlin says, “Yeah. Thanks. I'm set.”

He spends the evening home, eating a plate of boxed Thai noodles, the telly on mute, its pallid light casting shadows on the wall, the wall clock ticking over-loudly in the overall silence. In his raincoat's pockets he has a stash of photocopies from the archives ready to be deployed in case of need. But he stays put until 11.30. That's probably the superstitious part of his brain making the decisions here.

Outside, the weather is less than stellar as it's been all day, but there's no trace of the heavy mists that have hung about his every encounter with Arthur. But sure enough, as the ancient bells of the Oude Kerk chime midnight, the air thickens into a milky white softness that nearly erases the world around him.

Right now Merlin can't see the buildings around him anymore, barring the church, which stands there proudly yet mutely.

People are but splashes of colour and movement, not easily made out as they go about their business. The same goes for street signs and vehicles; they're but blunt shapes in the uniform grey.

Then, at the centre of this brumy haze, he starts singling out shapes. Men and women move about the street with a distracted air, but they're not the same people who had been crowding the street all day long and but a few moments before. They're dressed in clothes that haven't been aired for the past four centuries; they're using means of transport that have long fallen into disuse. Even the facades are different. The shops and taverns aren't those of a modern Dutch town, their signs indicating their trade, but the establishments would have mushroomed here centuries ago.

In the space before the church, Arthur materialises out of nothing, looking as lost as before, and Merlin knows with the certainty of a leap of faith that he's seeing what Arthur expects to see. He's stepped into a world Arthur understands and can process, though he has a feeling he's not really marched into the sixteenth century any more than Arthur has leaped into the twenty-first.

But Merlin has come here for a reason and he's not going to be cowed by an apparent change in his surroundings. “Arthur, I was looking for you.”

Arthur's smile dispels some of his puzzlement. “I was hoping I could see you too. I'm not sure I know where I am or where I'm going.”

And wasn't that an existential quandary Merlin would have liked to have the answer to. But he has a plan and he hopes with all he has that it will work. “I know, Arthur, and I think I can do something for you.”

“I'm looking for my mother,” Arthur says, “but the world changes around me with the blink of an eyelid. It's all so strange.”

“I can't tell you why that is.” Merlin has no idea as to the physics of this. He's not even sure science can even begin to explain what they're experiencing. “But I can tell you a few things about your mother.”

“Can you?” Arthur asks plaintively. “I'm so worried about her.”

Now Merlin feels he might cry. He wishes he could change this somehow; make it so Arthur could live a long and happy life. But he hasn't acquired godlike powers and he can only soothe. “You don't need to. Your mother lived a long life. She wanted for nothing. I checked.”

“How can you know who she is?” Arthur's grasp of the circumstances isn't illogical, despite all the odd trappings of his quandary.

This is the hard part, Merlin wagers. But Arthur deserves an explanation, so he can stop wandering between time and space, so he can stop wondering about what befell his near and dear ones. “You mentioned her address.”

“That I did, methinks.” Arthur brightens; new hope lending a happy cast to his face. “The Vlamingstraat. That's where I have to go.”

“Yes. Your mother rented a house in the Vlamingstraat from Ariaentgen van der Minne.” The fact that she happened to be Vermeer's aunt and that Merlin is a Vermeer scholar is a coincidence he ascribes less to chance and more to cosmic goodwill. “Her name's Ygraine.”

“Indeed that is her name.” Arthur is almost on the verge of tears. “Then you know her! You can take me to her!”

That isn't so easy for reasons that would make sense to anyone if they were told all the ins and outs of the situation. “I can tell you--” Merlin tries again. “--that she lived in that house till 1703 and that she died of old age. She married a well to do, well-meaning widower, who left her a legacy, and when she died she left her now ample possessions to his children, who opened a business in Amsterdam with the proceeds.”

Arthur's features congregate in a frown. “I don't--”

“But she saved a part of her money for a special purpose.” Merlin is trying to be gentle with this, for there's enough to this tale to make even the toughest man cry. “She bought a spot in the Oude Kerk for her son, who died aboard the Wapen van Amsterdam in the spring of 1665.”

“What--” Arthur wets his lips and takes a breath, if he can be said to be doing any of those things, given that his body is sadly unsubstantial. “I don't--”

“Arthur, you--” Merlin doesn't want to say this because he wishes it weren't so. The truth of this tale has been haunting him ever since he left the archives. He doesn't think he will ever forget about this man or his life as long as he draws breath. “You died in 1665 trying to defend the Wapen van Amsterdam from Portuguese freebooters.”

“I died?” The question sounds preposterous, but Arthur charges it with so much vulnerability that it has a different weight. It's certainly touching. “I don't remember. But I can recall being aboard the Wapen.”

“Are you Arthur Pendraaght?” Merlin's researched this, so he's fairly sure, or as much as one can be once all notion of known science is set aside. “Is your mother Ygraine, the lady who rented her house from Ariaentgen van der Minne?”

“Yes, that's who she is and who I am.” Arthur at least is certain about that. “I just want to make sure she's well.”

That's pretty much a question of timelines, Merlin wagers. “She was. As I said, in however much pain she was for your loss, she managed to cut out a good life for herself. When she passed, she was well off, and never suffered, but for your loss, which grieved her, believe me. But she had people to look after, her step-daughter, Morgana, she was particularly fond of.”

“I see.” Arthur seems to accept that with more equanimity than Merlin expected. “I just want her to be well,” he repeats more softly.

“She was.” Merlin isn't privy to Ygraine's thoughts, but he can at least say that she did find herself a new family to take care of and that she was never in dire straits again, even though she lost a beloved son whose body was never recovered. Yet she managed to give him a dignified burial and that many of her rank could only have dreamed of. Arthur's burial stone is inscribed with touching words that can still bring tears to the eye. “She must have been a remarkable woman.”

Arthur seems moved by Merlin's remark. There's a new emotion in his expression, a calm melancholy that makes the mood of the moment sombre, yet not hopeless. “She is. She's always fought hard, for herself and for me.”

“She was proud of you.” Merlin can't exactly swear to this, because he has no knowledge of the feelings of this woman who lived so long ago, but he bets he's not far off the mark. Besides, he wants to offer all the consolation he can. “You can be sure of that.”

Arthur nods feebly, then a new form of anguish dims the light in his eyes. “What about the rest of the crew. If I died... what happened to them? To the Wapen?”

“The Wapen was hijacked and the surviving members of her crew made hostage.” Merlin has made sure to learn all of this by heart. “The survivors were forty in number and most of them managed to eventually make their way back to the United Provinces.”

“Only forty…” Arthur shook his head, as if the fate of his fellow crew mates dejects him more than his own demise. “What of Elyan? Can you tell me about Elyan?”

In response to that question, Merlin roots in his pockets. Out of the photocopies he made at the Archives earlier today he selects one and reads out, “Elyan?” he echoes the name Arthur pronounced until Arthur confirms it for him. “He survived. He made it back to Amsterdam three years after the loss of the Wapen and became an innkeeper.” Then history loses track of him. “His grandson still owned the same place some sixty years later.”

That satisfies Arthur because he indulges in a smile. His attitude becomes less tense. But then doubts etches itself across his features. “So what now, if I'm, you know...”

Merlin wishes he didn't have to say what he's about to, but he sees no other solution, no way out. Arthur can keep feeling lost and wander around haunting the places he once knew and loved. Or he can be at rest. “You should move on, Arthur.” Right now Merlin feels like he could be this man's friend, that he could be his anchor, his support system. But oceans and centuries stand between them and there is no way to deepen this connection Merlin feels. “Your task is done and the people you loved were taken care of.”

“I don't know why I am here or talking to you other than I saw you amidst a whirl of faceless masks. You were the one.”

Merlin would like to know more, to find out why Arthur saw him when he failed to single out anyone else, communicate with any other person. But he fears there is no answer to that question and even if there was, it wouldn't help Arthur in the least. “I think that's because you needed my help, Arthur.”

“But why could you help when no one else could?” Arthur asks. “Are you in league with saints and angels.”

Merlin chuckles. “No.” That answer doesn't dispel Arthur's misgivings nor does it satisfy his need for knowledge, for an understanding that can give him peace. “Maybe it's because I had it within my power to help.”

“If you don't have any otherwordly power, how could you.”

Merlin considers the coincidences that have surrounded his and Arthur's meeting. “I study Johannes Vermeer, Arthur. The landlord of the house on the Vlamingstraat was his aunt. See, in time he became a famous painter whose work is thoroughly researched.”

“You knew about him,” Arthur says, connecting the dots. “And thus could point out the truth to me.”

“Yes,” Whether that is the working of powers greater than those of mankind or some kind of cosmic coincidence, he doesn't dare say. “That's the gist of it.”

“Then I trust I was led to you for a reason.”

“I hope so, Arthur, because I want...” Given the circumstances, He has no idea what he can wish for on Arthur's behalf, but he does feel he wants him to be all right. “I want the best for you.”

“Then I trust you, my friend.” Arthur says that with such firm belief the words have a weight of their own. “So what now?”

“Find peace, Arthur.” Merlin has an inkling he's doing the right thing, walking the correct path. The notion that Arthur will be at peace lends him inner calm, the balm of a quiet conscience. It may not be justice, but it's something. He looks squarely at the insubstantial form beside him. “Find peace.”

Arthur nods and focuses. Little by little his features relax and as he does a quiet joy suffuses his face. The more he displays this gladness, the paler he becomes, until the contours of him blur, and there's nothing but an impression of a person left to indicate Arthur ever was there.

And then even that vanishes.

And the town around Merlin comes again into focus, no longer looking like a tableau of times past, but like the modern community it actually is.

With his heart heavy with both regret and a quiet contentment, Merlin sighs and makes his way back home.

**** 

1 November, 202-

Though he feels he did the right thing, Merlin failed to sleep well during the night and has been somewhat morose all morning. Even Mithian swinging by with an offer of mocha and croissants doesn't do much to restore his good mood. Being as intuitive as she is, Mithian guesses something's wrong.

“You need to cheer up, Merlin,” she says. “Luckily, I have just the easy solution for you.”

To take his mind off, she takes him to visit a small rural village in the vicinity of Zaandijk. Here time seems to stand still: the green painted houses look like ancient farmyards, their fronts gay in the newly set in sunshine, their yards occupied by a variety of farm animals that makes the heart glad. Here he feels like he's seeing something of the same world Arthur moved in, though it's clearly the modern Netherlands he's looking at.

To cap off the day, they stop at a restaurant that reminds Merlin of an inn from times gone by. They sit on the back porch on wooden deckchairs that creak and fail to recline, a blanket on their knees and a cup of hot chocolate sitting on the round table next to them.

From their observation post, they have a view of pecking hens and herb munching cows. A couple of horses laze the hours away in the distance, while a couple of baby hens forage for what food they can find after they've inhaled it all during their first foray.

Merlin is sipping slowly, his legs stretched out in front of him, when the back door of the farmstead opposite opens. A farmer dressed in a jumper and overalls and wearing grey gloves comes out carrying boxes full of produce.

At first, Merlin barely notices him, but when the farmer, having put the boxes in the back compartment of a lorry, comes back for more, he focuses on him. He's blond and well built, with handsome features. With a start, Merlin realizes he's identical to the ghostly Arthur, who Merlin sent off to his final rest not 20 hours before.

When the man notices Merlin's regard, he smiles and winks. “Looking for some fresh produce?”

As a come on line, it’s rather corny, but Merlin grins widely at the man, eyes sparkling. Mithian gives Merlin a telling look and wags her eyebrows. “I think that fit farmer is flirting with you, my friend.”

Merlin hopes so, because there's something about the man that makes his heart beat faster and feel inordinately glad. And yet he hesitates.

The farmer offers a teasing smile that makes him appear even more good looking than before. He jerks his head towards the property just visible down the road. “This was my last stop. I’m heading back now, but you’re welcome to come browse the wares if you’re interested.” Another saucy wink and then the man is stepping into the lorry before slowly driving off.

Merlin turns to his companion and makes big eyes at her. With a laugh, Mithian urges him on, saying, “Go on, Merlin. What are you waiting for?”

And then Merlin is striding towards the adjoining farm with lightness written in his heart. He's ready to buy a hundred blocks of cheese and as many leeks, if that's what it takes to set the day right, because, he feels the heavens have just righted a great cosmic imbalance.

The End


End file.
